


Station East

by phyripo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV) Fusion, Each Chapter Can Be Read on Its Own, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 13:11:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyripo/pseuds/phyripo
Summary: Detective Tolys Laurinaitis is transferred to a new police station, which is unlike any other he’s seen before.Chaosis too mild for what’s going on at the city’s eastern precinct.Or: the various shenanigans of the weirdest bunch of detectives in town.





	Station East

**Author's Note:**

> This started because... My inner Belarus voice is _basically_ the same as my inner Rosa Diaz voice, and then it spiraled into th i s
> 
> Presenting a lot of Eastern European characters as detectives - you don't need to have watched Brooklyn 99 (although I do definitely recommend the show heh) - and those who aren't will also show up at some point, most likely. It's just silly, tbh, and will be added to whenever inspiration strikes :D
> 
> Can also be read [on tumblr](http://phyripowritesthings.tumblr.com/tagged/k99/chrono)!
> 
> FEATURING  
> Lithuania - Tolys Laurinaitis  
> Belarus - Nadzeya Alyakhnovich  
> Romania - Dragos Bălan  
> Estonia - Eduard Mets  
> Ukraine - Iryna Chernenko  
> Czechia - Kveta Horáková  
> Slovakia - Zdeno Kalicky  
> Poland - Feliks Łukasiewicz  
> Bulgaria - Stefan Borisov

The eastern precinct of the city is a police precinct like any other.

That’s what they told Tolys, anyway.

He’s barely set foot inside and he already isn’t so sure they were telling him the truth.

“Will you be alright from here on, detective Laurinaitis?” asks the woman from the reception desk, who’d showed him the way to the bullpen.

“Yes, sure, thank you,” he says faintly, and she walks back to the elevator, humming under her breath. Did… Did she not see the at _least_ seventeen violations of basic precinct etiquette that are happening right now?

There is a loud _bang_ from the break room.

Eighteen.

Tolys stares at the desk already bearing his name in a placard on the side forlornly. The woman said the captain is out at the moment, so he isn’t really sure what to do next.

He is saved from having to make a decision on that by a man rolling out of the break room on a wheelie chair, with wispy hair sticking up every which way and pointed shoes tap-tap-tapping on the linoleum floor as he rolls himself over to Tolys. It’s slow-going.

“You must be Tolys Laurinaitis!” he shouts when he’s halfway across the bullpen, lisping.

Tolys nods, watching the man and his flashy, but wet, red military-style jacket slide over.

“Are… You alright?” he asks when he’s close enough, having brought with him the distinct smell of alcohol.

“Me?” The man grins widely. “Sure. It’s just Eduard keeps stealing this chair and it’s the best chair at the station, so I glued myself to it.”

“I see,” he says faintly.

“It’s real painful. Anyway, hi! I’m Dragos Bălan and I’m the king – nay, the emperor! – of this precinct.”

“He’s not,” someone says behind Tolys. A hoarse, female voice. “He’s the jester – nay, the fool.”

Tolys turns around and comes face to face with a woman almost his height, with a cascade of platinum hair like snow and pale, statuesque features that look like they can cut. Her eyes are dark and completely unreadable, and she’s wearing a worn leather jacket zipped up all the way. All in all, she could have come straight out of his fantasies. She also has a detective badge clipped to her belt, but Tolys has suddenly forgotten everything he’s read about the eastern precinct in preparation and has no idea who she might be.

“Hello,” he squeaks.

“Hi,” she says. “Did Dragos glue himself to Eduard’s chair again?”

“ _Again_?”

“Idiot,” she tells Dragos, striding past both of them.

Tolys follows her, because she seems more competent than whatever Dragos is supposed to be. They walk into the break room, the wheelie chair creaking and squeaking behind them.

Something has _actually_ exploded in here. The walls are wet, everything smells like alcohol for some reason, and some chairs are overturned, flung against the cupboards along the wall. The table is charred in the middle. Tolys has regrets already.

The woman, however, pays it no attention, kicking a chair out of the way as she makes a beeline for the coffee machine. Behind Tolys, Dragos wheels himself into the room.

“That’s Nadzeya Alyakhnovich,” he tells Tolys. “In case you were wondering. We’re all supposed to pretend we don’t know her surname is actually Chernenko. She’s the captain’s sister.”

“Ah.” The name does ring a bell.

Nadzeya kicks a booted shoe against the vending machine until a granola bar falls down. Tolys is scared and turned on at the same time.

“So, uhm, what happened in here?” he asks Dragos, trying to distract himself.

The man shrugs, touching his tongue to his front teeth.

“Weren’t you just in here?” Besides, there’s a red hat matching his jacket stuck to the wet wall. Somehow.

“He blew up Kalicky’s distillery,” Nadzeya informs him matter-of-factly. And, to Dragos. “You better roll out before he comes back. Dude’s gonna be fucking pissed.”

“Kalicky’s disti—”

She’s walking back into the bullpen again, and Tolys hurries after her. He still has no idea what Dragos’s function is supposed to be, but he’s slightly terrified of him.

It’s fairly quiet on the floor of the precinct. The captain’s office is empty, and so is the desk facing the one that will be Tolys’s. A dark-haired man is at another desk, squinting at his computer through reading glasses and hunting for the right key on his keyboard at an excruciatingly slow pace. No one is in the holding cell.

“Well?” Nadzeya says, having sat down at her own desk. “You’re the new guy, right? Go sit at your desk. The captain will be back soon with Kalicky and Mets.”

Both of them glance at the break room, where Dragos is now trying to stand up with the chair sticking to his behind. Nadzeya carefully pulls her phone out of an inner pocket of her leather jacket, opens Snapchat, and puts it on the desk, seemingly in preparation. Then, she grabs a file from the stack on the side of the desk and slams it down in front of her.

Tolys decides to go sit down.

He logs into the computer at his desk and pulls up the files he received before this transfer again.

Right, Nadzeya Alyakhnovich, astoundingly high arrest rate. Who is Dragos? Not a detective, apparently. The dark-haired man, who has by now finished typing and is trying to help Dragos up from the floor of the break room with little success, must be sergeant Borisov.

No one but Tolys bats an eye when he and Dragos sprawl all over each other as the chair detaches itself from the latter’s behind abruptly. Borisov is swearing.

There’s no time to wonder what in the world is _happening_ here before the elevator doors slide open and a whole bunch of people spill out into the bullpen, including some uniformed officers _and_ , going by the insignia, the captain. Tolys stands, straightening his tie and waiting to be noticed.

After watching a man with light brown hair walk to the break room, where he loudly exclaims, “My vodka!”, the captain turns to Tolys with a small smile.

“Detective Laurinaitis?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shakes his hand. “Captain Iryna Chernenko. Welcome to the precinct. Have you been introduced to the colleagues present yet?”

“Uh.” He glances over at the break room. The brown-haired man, who must be Kalicky, seems to be trying to strangle Dragos and on the verge of crying at the same time, while sergeant Borisov looks on in exasperation, eating something out of a plastic container with a spoon.

“I’ll take that as a no,” captain Chernenko says. “Dragos really should have.”

“He was busy.” Tolys is very aware of how far away his voice sounds.

A tall, blond man whose tie is on backwards emerges from the holding cell, where he and the uniformed officers were putting a woman they’ve evidently just apprehended. He smiles at Tolys, pushing his rectangular glasses up and starting to walk over to him, when his gaze catches on a desk, and he stops mid-stride.

“That is not my chair,” he says. And then, turning, “Bălan! Did you glue your ass to my chair again?”

“Get in line, Eduard!” Kalicky shouts from the break room.

“Oh, this is way better than I expected,” Nadzeya comments from her desk, aiming her camera phone at the hubbub.

“I see,” the captain says, her voice soft but steady. “Don’t worry, detective. You get used to it.”

Tolys is horrified.

* * *

He doesn’t meet the squad in a less chaotic fashion, including the previously absent members, until the next day, since he spends most of the afternoon going over things with captain Chernenko.

When Tolys comes in the next morning, the bullpen’s already buzzing with activity, but as soon as the squad spot him, they put down their work – or their phone, in Dragos’s case – and line up in the middle of the floor. The captain steps out of her office, hands clasped behind her back.

“We thought we’d make a more concise introduction,” she explains, smiling apologetically.

“I feel Dragos gluing his ass to a chair and blowing up alcohol is a pretty accurate summary of his character,” Nadzeya puts in, while she inspects her fingernails.

“Well, yes. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“I ripped my pants,” Dragos says, grinning. Borisov elbows him.

“We saw, you idiot. You should have borrowed my coat.”

“Nah, it’s alright, I got one from evidence.”

“Yes, yes – what?” Chernenko furrows her thin eyebrows at him. “You – never mind. This is Dragos Bălan. He’s my assistant.”

While it is incredibly hard to believe the man ever does anything useful, Tolys nods.

“And as he told you,” Nadzeya says, “I’m Nadzeya Alyakhnovich, and don’t believe anything else you hear or I’ll cut your ears off.”

A knife slides into her hand out of seemingly nowhere, but she puts it back away when the captain – who is obviously her sister, really; they’ve got nearly identical facial features even if Chernenko’s are less pronounced on her softer face – gives her a quelling look. Tolys wishes he could tell whether she was joking, but her expression betrays nothing.

Next, the tall blond man from yesterday steps forward and holds his left hand out to Tolys, who shakes it.

“I meant to introduce myself yesterday. I’m Eduard Mets, and I’m thrilled to have you here. I’m sure we’ll have a great time.”

“Nice to meet you.” He, at least, seems marginally normal, even if he’s wearing a tie printed with tiny loaves of bread today. _And_ he seems to have his chair back, a glance at his cluttered desk confirms. There is also, for some reason, an actual loaf of bread next to his computer.

The smaller man who shakes Tolys’s hand next, crushing his fingers in a surprisingly strong grip, wasn’t present yesterday.

“Feliks Łukasiewicz,” he introduces himself. “Call me Feliks. I like your hair.”

Smiling, Tolys runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair. People often find it unprofessional, but next to Dragos, he supposes anything is passable at least. Feliks himself has longer hair as well, thin and pale blond. It fans around an equally pale, thin face with downturned green eyes and surprisingly full lips twitching into a nervous sort of smile in return. He seems alright, too.

Borisov just holds up a hand as if in a wave.

“Stefan Borisov, resident sergeant and _sole_ and _supreme_ owner of the yoghurt in the fridge.” His glare is fierce and sweeps over everyone.

“Okay,” Tolys squeaks. “Noted, sir.”

The last two members of the team are clustered together at the end of the row; Kalicky, the vodka distillery man, and a woman with short brown hair and sharp eyeliner. She speaks up.

“I’m Kveta Horáková, this is Zdeno Kalicky. And for the _last time_ , Stefan, we didn’t take your yoghurt. You just fucking forgot that you already ate it.”

“I’m only 39!” he protests. “I’m not old enough to start forgetting things! You can’t fool me.”

“Yes, yes,” Chernenko says again, talking over them. She is apparently used to this. “And everyone, this is detective Tolys Laurinaitis, our new colleague. Please make him feel welcome at the eastern precinct. Tolys, Feliks, I’ve got a case for the two of you. Come into my office.”

* * *

Tolys’s first case is a pretty clean-cut street robbery, and even years and years later, he’s entirely unable to remember how in the world both him and Feliks end up chasing the thief down the city streets in clown suits.

It’s only the beginning, anyway.


End file.
